


In Heaven's Unearthly Estate

by redvineshark



Category: Green Room (2015)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, post green room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvineshark/pseuds/redvineshark
Summary: Standing still. Coming home.
Relationships: Pat/Tiger (Green Room)
Kudos: 1





	In Heaven's Unearthly Estate

**Author's Note:**

> although this fandom is small, i wanted to write a canon compliant post-fic, so consider it a love letter

He’s sure he should think a lot of things, but all he can think right now is that they didn’t do a very good job tidying Tiger up. They’ve pulled him out on a tray, a slab, and uncovered him. Just for a peek. Pat’s supposed to struggle to look at him, cry maybe, and whisper “yeah, that’s him.” But it’s not. Not really. Whatever is lying there isn’t Tiger. His skin’s gone pale and grey, his throat left marred until he’s sent off to the funeral home, all the life drained out of him until even that bright shock of hair is devoid of color. It’s not Tiger, because it can’t be. So all he does is nod and say “Put him back, please.”

It’s not much different with Sam and Reece. The diener has to stop him from brushing Sam’s curls out of her face. He just wants to see her freckles is all. He never got around to counting them all, and he wants to be sure he gets them right. He whimpers when he sees Reece. Strong, brave Reece, all slashed up and gone and nothing. Those red-boots had tried to kick his head in, and he wants to thumb over the bruises, like he could smooth them out and away and maybe then Reece would just be sleeping. None of it feels real.

He’s silent in the passenger seat on the drive home. He and Amber don’t talk much at all, really, other than what take out to order and who gets to pick the CDs. He’s saving up for some second-hand car, because it kind of hurts to watch her drive the van around. This is Reece’s baby, not hers, and maybe he would’ve let Pat drive it, but his prosthetic hasn’t come in yet, and even then….

He keeps his eyes on the dice hung on the rearview mirror. 

He’s not going to sell the thing, of course, just find some place for it in the parking lot at the apartment and pray it doesn’t get towed. He can hardly stand to let Amber drive it, but he’d never forgive himself if he had to do away with it altogether. 

“Sam’s is next week.” Amber breaks the silence while Pat drops the keys in the fruit bowl by the door (which never actually has any fruit in it) and he understands she means the funeral without her having to clarify. “It’ll be a stream of them.”

“Would it make me horrible if I got sick of funerals?”

“Not if you don’t say anything.” She says, and he thinks that might be the end of it because she stops there for a bit. Then she fiddles with the knob of her cane and meets his eye. “Will you come with me to Emily’s?”

Pat freezes. He does feel bad for Amber. He does. And after all that, it should be easy to forgive and forget. But he shakes his head anyway, and he surprises himself with the finality in his voice. “I’m not going to a skinhead funeral.”

Amber opens her mouth, then closes it. Eventually, she nods curtly and shuts the bedroom door behind her. It’s her night on the bed, even though Pat’s back is aching nearly as much as his head. He thanks god for the cheap beer in the back of the fridge, and pounds down some Ambien while he’s at it. Usually, it staves off the dreaming. There are only so many times he can stand reliving it. Or worse, whatever his mind offers in replacement.

He goes to the pharmacy three days later, when his Ambien is out. “Mister Donovan?” The bespectacled man behind the counter calls, and no one ever used to call him mister anything. Maybe, he thinks, this has all aged him up. Maybe, he thinks, it’s just the bags under his eyes. He’s still there, this angry young punk. But his hair will grow back when he’s old, and his shirts will no longer fit him, and then what? He thinks, probably, he’ll keep his sun spotted hand intertwined with the other when he lets his fist go. He gingerly takes the baggie the man slides to him, and stuffs his hand(s?) in his pockets. He’s never sure what to do with them anymore.

Sometimes, though, even the meds can’t quell the dreams away. Sometimes, all they do is knock him into them quicker, deeper. Tonight’s, at least, is a departure from the usual script.

He finds himself on a park bench, overlooking a lake that yawns and stretches to kiss the sky good morning. It’s beautiful, but it isn’t, because he’s the only living thing there. Not even the water ripples. It’s always him, isn’t it? The only living thing.

“It’s nice, right?” Says the voice suddenly next to him, and he knows it without having to turn his head. He can feel the blood that hits his neck like spittle when they speak.

“Not really.” And he means it. The sky darkens, and he guesses that means he’s hurt its feelings. He lets himself turn, then, and Tiger is staring straight on at the still water. 

His neck flays a little more on each syllable. “You never liked things too still, huh?”

He feels like he should ask something. What’s heaven like? Or hell, or whatever. But what comes out is: “Yeah.”

“Would be a nice place to walk a dog.”

Pat wants to laugh, but what comes out is strangled, and Tiger still just stares ahead. Like he’s not even there. “I miss you.”

“Hm.”

“Stay where I can see you?”

Tiger looks at him, then, and Pat desperately wishes he hadn’t. His eyes are glossy and grey, his hair all flat and lifeless. His throat still open and throbbing, spraying out droplets of hot blood on Pat’s neck. Yeah. Still the only living thing, then. “You don’t want to see me.”

Pat wakes up sweating and panting and scrambles to pop a couple more Ambien, even though his prescription says he really shouldn’t. He shakes his head when his breath slows. Eventually, he drifts off, and this time it’s dreamless and cold.

***

He and Amber go arm in arm to Sam’s funeral. It’s the closest they’ve ever been.

They asked him to give a eulogy. He didn’t really know what to say. What is there to say? He knew Sam, and then he didn’t, and it’s not fair because he should’ve kept on knowing her. He can’t look at dogs anymore even though he used to love them, and the neighbors keep setting off fucking fireworks at night for football games he doesn’t even watch and he knows they’re fireworks, he knows that, but he keeps shaking, shaking, shaking. That he can’t decorate his apartment, because he’s still waiting. He’s got a carefully made list of what he would grab in a hurry when they come back and find him and take him out too. That he knew Sam longer than he’s cared to know anyone, and he should’ve been allowed that constant in his life because now he’s just drifting. That they wouldn’t even let him count her freckles, that her heart stopped three times before it gave out and he was in the waiting room for all of them. He doesn’t give a eulogy.

But he does walk up and hold Mrs. Summers’ hand, squeezes it tight, and she tilts her chin up high when she cries. They used to be so close, all of them. He spent more time at Sam’s house than his. He used to call her mom Auntie. Now she’s greying, and he’s got his hair buzzed down short, and her dad is standing like he’s going to fall through the floor, and Sam’s in a casket. He swallows down the lump in his throat and nudges her dad’s shoulder until he throws an arm around Pat, and they stand all held there while they watch her get lowered. None of them say a word. What is there to say?

He leans against Amber while she cries that night, and he tries his best not to be angry. She’s allowed to grieve, too. He just wishes she’d stop acting like their loss is equal.

***

On Thursday, he dreams that he’s hunched up in front of a mirror, baring snarling dog teeth all yellowed and red with blood. There’s some in the sink, too, and on his hands. Everywhere. The room is bleeding. He’s the only thing that isn’t bleeding, and he should be. Maybe that would make it a little better.

***

They’re eating breakfast on the stools at the kitchen counter, which is really just bowls of knock-off cereal they got at the dollar store. Amber says: “Are you okay?” and Pat says: “I read somewhere that one day, your parents put you down and never picked you back up again.”

Amber finishes her cereal and puts the bowl in the sink, even though they haven’t got any milk so it could probably go without washing. “You’re too old to get picked up, Pat.”

“Yeah.” He’s still got half a bowl left, but he still puts it in the sink. He’s not that hungry anymore.

He finds it in him to get dressed, and then he pauses at the door. “Do you wanna come?”

Amber doesn’t look up from the TV she isn’t really watching. “No.”

So he leaves. The coffee shop is right around the corner, and he thinks Tad chose it that way, so he wouldn’t have to go far. So if he scared off like a wounded rabbit, he could find his way back home. It makes him feel weak, so he decides to look up coffee shops farther away and suggest that next time. 

“Pat!” Tad waves him over to a booth in the corner and hands over his coffee, and Pat doesn’t know how to tell him he doesn’t like cappuccino so he just drinks it anyway. This is their sixth cup. He’s pretty sure Tad is trying to figure out how many cups of coffee it will take to make up for sending them out there, but there isn’t enough coffee in the world for that so Pat figures he’ll just let him get it out of his system. “How was...y’know.”

“It was a funeral.” Pat supresses a grimace and takes a sip of his coffee. “So. Not great.”

“...Right. Sorry.” 

“My temp is coming in on Tuesday.” He says, and waves the nub to clarify.

“Oh! Nice! What’s that gonna look like?”

“...I dunno. Black, probably. Metal.” 

It’s quiet for a while, and they just sort of sit there and drink. Mostly he just watches the people walk past the window. Sitting quiet with Tad isn’t like sitting quiet with Amber. It’s uncomfortable. But at least it feels like he’s sitting with someone who has other places to be.

“I’m glad it was you.” Tad picks at the wood of the table and does an awkward little laugh. “I’d have a harder time talking Reece into coffee.”

Pat stares at him. He just stares right through him.  
  
“I’m sorry-” Tad starts, “I shouldn’t have said that-”

“Don’t fuckin say that. Never say that.” Pat stands and throws a couple crumpled dollar bills on the table. “And I hate cappuccino.”

***

He has his prosthetic by the time Reece’s funeral rolls around. It’s only temporary, but it’s nice to have a weight there again. Helps with the phantom. He runs his finger over the cold metal screws while he watches Reece’s parents cry.

He never knew them that well, but Mr. Hartley still gives him a sad smile when he shows up at their doorstep four days later. Pat lets him fix him a cup of tea, more so because he thinks Mr. Hartley needs it. He’s not a big fan of tea. All the Hartleys have got is builder’s, and it’s strong because Pat doesn’t ask for milk or sugar. He just asks to see upstairs.

He takes Pat up to Reece’s old bedroom, and Pat sits down on the bed for a good couple minutes. He’s eyeing the beat up old drumset in the corner, and Mr. Hartley laughs a little under his breath.

“For Christmas, when he was thirteen. He was really into Neil Peart.” Mr. Hartley walks over and sits at the little black stool behind the set, and Pat can see his chest rise with a deep, shaky breath. “Shit old thing, but he wore it out.”

“He always played loud.” It’s stupid, but it’s true, and it’s all he can muster.

“Yeah,” He laughs, and it’s soft. “Yeah. He’d hate how quiet it’s gotten.”

“Can you play?” 

And he can. Mr. Hartley’s shaky hands reach for the drumsticks on the bedside table, and he bangs out Hotel California. And then he laughs again, a little louder this time. Like he means it. “I was in a band in college. Eagles cover band.”

Pat thinks he’s supposed to laugh, but instead he gives Mr. Hartley the most of a smile he can manage. “I like Eagles.”

On his way out, Pat traces the Rush poster taped above the bed. “Can I take this?”

“ _What can you do when your dreams come true and it’s not quite like you planned? What have you done to be losing the one you held so tight in your hand…”_ crows the radio, as the poster jostles around in the backseat. Yeah. He likes Eagles.

***

He doesn’t see Tad again until they’re driving together to Tiger’s wake. It’s a bit further of a drive, Tiger’s parents wanted to do it at the ocean. They had him cremated, and they’re going to toss out his ashes to the tide. Pat’s a little angry at them for it, but mostly he’s hoping Tiger gets carried back to him on the air.

“I’m sorry, y’know.” Tad says, and squeezes Pat’s shoulder with the hand that isn’t on the steering wheel. “About what I said.”

“I know.” Pat whispers, and doesn’t turn away from the window. He wants to watch the birds fly over the sand. 

“I said it wrong, is all.” He lets go of Pat’s shoulder. “I’m glad you made it out. That’s all I meant.”

Pat doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He just watches the birds.

When they make it down to the beach, Tiger’s mother won’t look him in the eye. She doesn’t look anywhere, really, but especially not at him. Maybe she’s angry it’s not Tiger that got out of that place. He’s sort of angry too, so he doesn’t blame her. Between his hair and his hand and the suit from Goodwill that doesn’t fit, he probably wouldn’t look at him either. He stands beside her for a bit, though. All he really says is “I miss him too,” because it’s all he can think to say. She straightens a little.

“We were going to have an open casket. But his throat.” She’s all hoarse and choked up, and he stares at the urn in her hands. He tries very, very hard not to think about that.

He was sort of hoping they’d let him help toss the ashes. But he doesn’t ask.

Tad keeps his hand on Pat’s arm the whole drive home, like he has to hold him together. Maybe he does. When they pull up to the apartment, Tad doesn’t let go. “I have something for you.” Pat furrows his brow, and then Tad pulls out a CD with _Ain’t Rights_ scribbled in sharpie. “Thought you should have it.”

Pat nods, takes it, and leaves without a word. 

He falls apart as soon as he shuts the door behind him, and Amber stands from the couch to pull him into a hug. They’ve never done that before, hugs. So he says: “Why?”

And it’s murmured into his shoulder, but he still hears. “Because I can’t pick you up.”

***

A week later, Pat opens the door to Tiger’s little sister rocking on her heels. She’s got three stacked boxes, and she sets them down in front of her. “...They were gonna send them off. Storage, or Goodwill or something.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll take care of them?”

“Yeah.” He nudges the boxes into the apartment, and she stands there for a moment before she steps forward and hugs him tight. Her eyes are screwed shut, but they look just like Tiger’s and it cuts him deep. He pets her hair. Sixteen. She’s just sixteen. He almost sobs with it, but instead he just sinks in and hugs her back. “You’re gonna be alright, Piper.”

“He used to call me Cubby.” She whispers, and he can feel the wet spot growing on his shirt where her eyes are buried. 

“Come inside?”

She steps back and shakes her head. “Dad’s in the car. I’ve only got my permit, so.”

“Right.” He says, but he hands over his shitty little burner phone so she can plug her number in. “Whenever you need me.” Because he gets the feeling she hasn’t talked about it. When you’ve got a mother-no-more and a father who had wanted a son more than anything, you probably keep your mouth shut about how you’re feeling. Don’t want to make it worse.

It feels good for once. To have held someone who needed it more than he did.

***

He’s standing out on the balcony, watering the plants. They have a little garden out there, because it’s cheaper to grow tomatoes than to buy them. Sam said that once about strawberries. He likes having plants. He likes having something to get him out of bed, something to get him outside for a minute. He likes keeping something alive.

He’s got a garden like Sam, and Tiger’s humor, and he’s adopted Reece’s temper. It’s nice to see them when he looks in the mirror. But he’s wondering how much of him there is left in his body. Maybe it’s none. Maybe it’s all them.

***

The next time he goes to coffee with Tad, he tells the barista his name is Jason. That’s the name written in red sharpie on the tag of the secondhand jacket he’s wearing. Tad doesn’t say anything, and he smiles when he sees it written on the cup. He can’t be bothered to be Pat today.

They sit there quiet again, and Pat looks out the window and thinks about Jason. He likes to think Jason has a nice family he’d moved away from, but not far enough that he can’t come around to visit for holidays and birthdays and the like. Jason has a group of friends that meet up after work for drinks, and they have perfectly normal lives and perfectly regular jobs and do perfectly regular things. Jason has a full, clean set of clothes in his closet, ones that no one else has ever worn before, and they aren’t scratchy or stained or moth holed, either. They’re probably dress shirts, because Jason probably goes to business school. The way Pat’s mother said he could’ve, before they stopped kidding themselves that he was on a gap year. Jason has never even heard of Misfits. He’s got a trophy husband, and a nice big house, and a nice big yard, and there’s no nazi motherfuckers in the bushes to shoot anyone down.

Or maybe The Real Jason is sat in a dingy old apartment too, sending his next garbage bag of unwanted clothes off to the thrifties. But he probaby has two hands, and can look at a dog without flinching, and is always two handshakes of separation away from any dead men.

Tad coaxes him into conversation, and Pat tells him about his garden. Maybe, he says, Tad can come around when the tomatoes are ripe. They’ll have a salad.

***

Pat gets around to listening to the CD. More so he makes himself. He thought it was a tracklist (and it is, most of it) but the interview is on there too. He sort of wants to punch himself for talking so much.

_Let them talk, Pat,_ he thinks, _let me hear them._

“No one wants to be in their seventies listening to Minor Threat.” He hears himself say, and he can still see them all squished up on Tad’s little couch.

“Except Tiger.” Reese mumbles, and it’s most of his contribution to the interview.

“I won’t live to my seventies.” Tiger says. They all laugh.

Pat turns it off after that. He can’t breathe.

***

Two weeks later, he forces himself to look at the boxes. And then, even farther, he forces himself to open them. There’s a little sticky note on the top, and he smiles when he sticks it to the fridge. _He’d want you to have these._

It’s mostly meaningless shit, but it’s Tiger’s shit, so it means something. There’s a little Rolling Stone magazine collection, and some Playboys stuffed between them he hopes Piper didn’t catch. A healthy stack of photos, and Pat latches to those immediately. Just stupid backstage pictures, or in Reece’s basement, or he and Tiger fucking around on Piper’s giant trampoline. He stuffs them into his bedside drawer so he can trust himself not to lose them. Plus, these are just for him. He’s not sure he wants Amber to have a look.

Tiger never told him he used to play tee-ball, but he guesses it never would’ve come up, being so long ago. But there’s a wee helmet, and the stand that would’ve been just slightly shorter than little Tiger, and he sets the bat by his bed just in case. He thinks maybe, god forbid he has to use it, it’d feel like Tiger was protecting him.

There’s a little box of childhood stuff, a stuffed animal (a tiger, and he smiles), a birdhouse nightlight, a blue baby blanket. When he presses the tiger to his chest, it comes to life, and it’s a speaker he supposes. He never went to Build-a-Bear as a kid. “ _My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea,”_ it sings, “ _my Bonnie lies over the ocean, so bring back my Bonnie to me.”_

For the first time in months, he lets himself cry. 

He can’t pinpoint when exactly he fell in love with Tiger, but it’s now that he stops pretending that he wasn’t.

***

It’s been four months, and he’s bending over the bathtub so Amber can wash his hair out. It’s grown out a little, but not by too much. They’ve just dyed it purple.

“We could’ve done patterns if you kept it shaved.”

Pat doesn’t say anything, but they both know what he wants to say.

“You could’ve been a sharp.”

“Skinhead’s still a skinhead.” He says, and the fossit roars over it. “It’s all ruined now.”

“Will you come with me on Friday?” Amber asks, eventually, after all the excess dye is whirling down the drain.

“Where?”

“Outlet mall. I gotta get new laces.”

***

It’s been an hour since he stopped throwing things. He’s trashed most of the apartment now, and Amber just sort of sat there and let him. She only flinched a little. 

The dial tone is still ringing on his phone, and eventually he summons the courage to hang up. He tries one last time, just in case, even while Amber is whispering “don’t.”

“We're sorry you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this is in error, please check the number dialed, and please try again."

He just sort of...falls. He just sits on the ground, tuckered from the shouting. He broke the fruit bowl. 

“He couldn’t have kept the number forever-”

“I know!” He snaps, and then gives her an apologetic look when she stiffens. “I know that.”

It’d been his only source of comfort, when he needed it. He’d just dial up Tiger over and over, get sent to voicemail just to hear him speak. He couldn’t bear listening to the CD, but he’d spent too many nights lying awake and trembling, scared shitless of forgetting what he sounded like.

Amber had only made fun of him a little when he plugged in the nightlight. But she doesn’t say anything at all if she hears him pressing the tiger over and over again that night. _My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea…_

***

When he wakes up, he sees the date on his phone and elects to go back to sleep for a few hours.

It’s been six months to the day.

It’s some kind of fucked up anniversary for them, and usually he and Amber get a pizza and just sit there together, trying to pretend that things are alright. She could’ve moved in with someone else, if she really wanted to. He could’ve put out flyers, or a Craigslist ad, or maybe seen how far Tad’s generosity could reach. But they didn’t. And he knows, then, when he sees the note on the dining room table, it’s because no one else would understand.

_Out. Back tonight. Will bring pizza._

_-A_

He spends most of the day with the pictures from his dresser spread out in front of him, and the rest of it he spends taking a long, hot bath. When he gets out, he calls Piper.

“Six months.”

“Hi to you too, Pat.”

He laughs a little, and sinks down into the pillow. “You holding up?”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “Not as hard now.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“...Nevermind.” Pat rubs at his temple. He can’t ask a grieving sixteen year old for help. “Take care, Piper.”

“You too, Pat.”

When Amber comes home, she’s wobbly from the cane and the drinking, but he doesn’t ask. She sets a large pepperoni pizza on the kitchen table, and they absently flick through channels while they eat. They laugh, now and then, and keep their shoulders pressed together for the contact. 

It’s a while of quiet before he says anything, but his throat is tight and his voice cracks when he speaks. “...I can’t remember what color his eyes were.” All he can see is the grey, the gone.

Amber just stares ahead, like she’s watching still water too. “Blue.”

And suddenly he’s sobbing, more even than the day with the voicemail. Because Amber remembers. Amber. Amber who knew Tiger for a grand total of one night. She sets a steady hand on his back and rubs little circles, and it’s stabilizing. It’s like being picked up. It’s like being held. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know his favorite food, though, or his middle name.”

He laughs a little, even when it’s wet and aching. “Hot tamales. Jameson.”

***

He starts visiting the Summers. Someone’s got to keep up Sam’s garden, and he’s gotten pretty good at it. Mrs. Summers hugs the life from him, and he lets her. 

“Hi, Auntie.” He murmurs into her hair, and he feels the smile in his shoulder.

Mr. Summers has to help him dig, because he has trouble with it one handed. “When’re you getting a proper one of those things, boy?”

“Dunno. Whenever. I have to save for a car, first, so the temp’ll do.” He says, still pruning up the Marigolds.

“You need a hand more than a car.”

“Yeah, well.” He pauses to snip off a dead bud. “We can’t keep mooching Reece’s van.”

Three weeks later, there’s a box on his doorstep. There’s no return address, no note. But he knows. He fixes the prosthetic onto his arm.

***

On the year mark, he and Tad get coffee. He thumbs the zipper on his jacket, but when the barista asks his name, he says “Pat.”

Tad holds his hand across the table for most of it, and he doesn’t make him talk. They make plans to see a show together, and invite Amber along. He’s finally warming up to the idea of going to concerts again. He brings Tad back up to the apartment, and Pat takes a deep breath before he plugs Tiger’s mic in, still up on a stand he got from a garage sale. He always keeps it up. “Karaoke?”

It’s a shit mic, but he gets the impression that it missed being used.

Amber comes with him that night, when he stuffs Jason’s jacket in a grocery bag and drives it down to a thrift box between a McDonald’s and a RiteAid. She holds his hand while he throws it in. Another cycle for the poor thing, but someone else needs it more than he does. Someone else needs to be Jason. 

When they get back in the car (a shitty old beige 1993 Ford Aspire he got for dirt cheap because two of four windows were broken) Amber drums her hands on the wheel. “Let’s go to Portland.”

“Huh?”

“Been a year. Let’s go to Portland.” 

Pat takes a short, sharp breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

They almost can’t afford the gas, but they fill up the tank most of the way. They’d planned on taking turns driving, but Pat hasn’t gotten his license renewed yet, so they figure they better not. He has to do a bunch of tests if he wants to drive with the prosthetic, and it’s easier just to let Amber take the wheel. The dice on the rearview mirror swing when she pulls out of the parking lot.

It’s about eight hours, so the sun is rising by the time they get there. It’d been mostly lakes and pastures for a while, and Pat was staring out the window when he wasn’t drifting in and out of sleep. It was nice, that. Changing scenery, just different specs of trees or cows where there hadn’t been before, but not enough change to startle him.

She parks, and for a good ten minutes, they just sit there. Staring. Silently daring each other to step out first. He surprises himself when he’s the first to open his car door. “Pop the trunk.” He says, and so she does.

He rifles around until he finds the dufflebag, and slings it over his shoulder. Amber steps out and around to stand beside him, closes the trunk before she leans back. “They closed it.”

“Can’t imagine it’s an easy sell.”

They laugh a little, and then Amber walks up first. The bar is looking down at them like it’s angry, and the set list is still up on the letterboard outside. Pat finds it in him to chuckle at _Aren’t Rights._

They have to bust in, but it’s not hard. They already know the back way in.

It makes him sick to pull himself out of the hole Tiger and Reece bashed out, to clamber up into the green room. Amber has a steady grip on his good arm to help him out, and he’s sure she can feel it shaking. He’s eye level with her boots (yellow laced.) When she lets it go, he grips the dufflebag strap tight. 

They try not to stay in the green room very long, but there’s still bloodstains on the carpet. It’s hard to tear your eyes from once you’ve seen it. So instead he shields his eyes and hurries to the door, which he holds open for Amber. He stands there in the doorway, for a moment. And then he whispers, “bye.” 

He shuts the door tight.

Turning the corner is almost worse, to see the exact spot where Tiger had laid, when Pat had been too slow to react, too slow to help him up, to kick the dog off, to anything. Maybe there was never any saving him. Any of them. Maybe it was always going to be this, ever since that empty restaurant gig.

“It kinda feels right to be here.” Amber says, and kicks at the ground with her cane. “Is that bad?”

“No.” He runs his good hand over his face. “It’s full circle.”

She nods wordlessly, and then they hop up and sit on the stage for a bit, kicking their feet and watching the unblinking overhead lights. “I’m sorry it was them.”

“What?”

“They were your friends.” She won’t look at him. Straight ahead. He follows her eyes, and he looks for still water. “And you ended up stuck with me.”

“Sorry it’s me.” Is all he can say, as he picks at the chipping paint of the stage floor. “I’m sure Emily was nice.”

“She wasn’t, really.” Amber laughs, and then Pat laughs too, even though it’s not funny. None of this is funny. But they just keep laughing. 

When his ribs stop hurting, he jumps down and doesn’t wait for her to follow before he slings off the dufflebag and pulls out a can of red spraypaint. He feels her watching, standing behind him, and he shakes the can heartily before he writes all he can think to write.

_Ain’t Rights were here._

And they were. He can feel it, even now. Part of them always will be.

***

They stop halfway through the drive for more gas and soda, because he’s worried Amber will pass out behind the wheel. The scenery is the same as it was the first time around, but he finds that the sun changes it all. He feels the sun rise in him, too.

When they get onto a winding cliff road, Pat fishes around in the glove compartment and yanks out a crumpled road atlas. “Hold on.”

“Hm?” It’s around a sip of Dr Pepper, but Amber perks in interest from her tired slump.

“Take a left here, and then a right on Brighthausen Way.” 

He directs her all the way there, and eventually they’re on a rocky, wind bearing cliff, complete with a walking trail down to the beach. Amber shuffles out of the car after him, after a beat. “What are you doing?”

“Saying goodbye.” 

He kicks off his shoes and tosses them into the car, rolls up his jeans. And then he goes off down the trail, faintly hearing Amber’s boots on the dirt behind him.

“You didn’t come to his wake, did you? Tiger’s.” Pat says, curling his toes in the cold sand.

“...No. I was at Emily’s _celebration of life.”_

“It was here.” He walks until he’s ankle deep in the water, letting the salt lick at the knicks and scars. “They let his ashes off.”

“He loved the beach?”

“Not really.” He curls his toes here, too, but it’s mostly rock. When he looks up, he can see the seagulls and crows in equal amounts. “He loved the birds.”

He tugs her by the arm, and she takes careful steps into the water, just far enough in to feel it rise above her feet, but not so far she couldn’t steady herself without her cane. She keeps her hold on his arm when she fumbles. He kicks a little splash at her in response, and she throws him a playful glare. It doesn’t look playful, but he knows when she means it.

He has a lot of things to say. A lot of words caught in his throat. But mostly, it’s two or three big ones. What he says, though, is: “Goodbye, Tiger.”

And when he skips a flat rock to the sun, the water ripples. Maybe, he thinks, as Amber breathes and the birds caw, he’s not the only living thing.

Amber stands and stares, trying not to topple over, while he skips rock after rock, while he looks at the sun and whistles. _My Bonnie lies over the ocean..._


End file.
